Training Her Curves - Kinbaku (A BBW Billionaire Domination and Submission Short) (2 page)

BOOK: Training Her Curves - Kinbaku (A BBW Billionaire Domination and Submission Short)
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When she finally came, I exploded with her. After that, all my girlie bits worked when I was alone and imagining the dom in that video. But I couldn't find one in real life. My brothers were part of the problem. Dylan didn't want me to step foot in the clubs and both he and Jake presented the ultimate image of alpha males. I was "Riona -- don't call me Princess -- Kehoe" and I would be damned if I submitted to some run of the mill, wanna-be dominant.

"You can't be in subspace already," Rick mused softly, drawing me away from my thoughts as he smoothed a strand of hair behind my ear.

"I'm not," I snapped and turned my head, instantly wishing I hadn't. Rick had replaced the robe's black sash with a thicker, wider cut of silk. The dimensions were the same as the new blindfolds I had designed for the catalog, but the color was the most perfect example of cerise -- cherry red -- that I had ever seen.

If my still conflicted sexuality hadn't been ready to bolt for the studio door, the fashionista in me would have been demanding the identity of the textile mill responsible for the fabric and its hue.

"Good," Rick said, giving me a pass on my bitchy reply. "Because the ropes aren't even on you."

For a second, I felt lightheaded. I shook the sensation away. Rick was handsome and talented. I had even nurtured a small crush on him during my junior year of college, but that had faded over time and I didn't think it could be re-kindled, even with the reputation he had as a dominant. My body had only been responding to the threat, or promise, of being tied up while I couldn't see.

"Don't worry, Ree." Planting a knee on the bench, he brought the silk square around to the front of my face. "I'm only blindfolding and photographing you. My knots are clumsy at best. I brought in a rope master."

"I won't be able to see him?" My fingers wrapped around the cushion I sat on to quell the sudden urge of stopping his hands. I had agreed to sit for the photo session in whatever pose he desired. I had stupidly assumed that Rick and I would be the only people in the studio -- but I hadn't demanded it as a condition.

Since the fault with the contract was purely my own, I would comply with as much grace as I could muster.

"Correct," Rick answered. "Those were his terms and he's the best."

"He's been here the whole time, hasn't he? That cologne with the nutty oakwood and oranges." The calm in my voice masked the sudden flare of anxiety that twisted through my stomach.

He tugged the material once to test that it was secure and then he moved away from me before answering. "Yes, here and observing."

Fresh dread snaked through my intestines.

"The smoked glass?" I asked, recalling the floor to ceiling panel secured to the wall opposite the bathroom.

Rick's only answer was the
click
and
whirr
of his camera.

My fingers itched with the need to pull the mask down. "But how do I know he doesn't have a mini-video camera or something?"

"The same way he knows you don't have one." Rick's voice dripped with amusement. Nothing cruel, more like he was explaining a very obvious point to someone with a mind no more advanced than a child's.

Maybe Rick was right about my mental faculties because it took me several strained seconds of thought before I understood. I was naked. Unless I had a camera up my
va-jay-jay
, which wouldn't provide a very good view of things, then it was a safe assumption I wasn't carrying a camera. This man, my rope master for the afternoon, would be every bit as nude.

Faulty contract indeed!

Flesh bumps crawled up my spine then fanned across my shoulders. My nipples, which had been relaxed despite my nudity and the placement of the blindfold, turned hard. I shifted against the cushion, uncomfortable with my body's quick reaction to the new arrangement.

I knew nothing about the man who had been watching me beyond his scent and second hand reputation. I rummaged through my memories for the snippets of gossip I had heard about club members. No one stood out as an expert in rope bondage.

He might not be a club member, of course. The fees were high for most prospective candidates. Celebrities received a significant break, of course, because they attracted those who could pay the exorbitant costs. The quietly famous, like Rick with his cameras and paints, also were admitted under different rules.

I heard a click, like a latch releasing, and then cold air rushed over me, carrying with it the same delicate scent that had attracted my attention upon first entering the studio. The fragrance conjured up the image of dark earth and tanned skin.

Fingers brushed gently against the back of my neck, their surface cold to the touch. From somewhere in front of me, Rick told me to repeat my safe word.

"Sakura," I whispered then cleared my throat and said it again, without the mouselike volume or tone. "Sakura."

The man's hands captured my shoulders. The flesh was callused and I wondered if it was from the ropes he used or because of his profession. His fingertips trailed down my arms until he reached my elbows. He cupped me there and lifted. I had the sense of being measured, like getting fit by a seamstress.

His weight settled on the cushion behind me. I didn't know at first whether he had taken a seat or was kneeling until the front of his thighs pressed against my back. I swallowed roughly at the contact, my imagination thick in my throat. And then something pressed straight along my spine, something smooth and hard and...

Big...

I took another nervous gulp, this time for air.

The rope master ran his rough palms on the underside of my arms. When he reached the pit area on each side, his touch slid forward to cover my chest. He tested the weight and give of my breasts, flexing and squeezing until I squeaked from all the tension coiling inside of me.

His head dipped so that his lips brushed against my ear. Harsh pants blew against the side of my throat and then I realized he was only mimicking -- perhaps even mocking -- my winded panting. I forced myself to take slower, deeper breaths and he stopped.

Moving off the cushion, the man walked around the room. I heard drawers open and close and then he returned to the bench, this time in front of me. A narrow width of fabric touch my outer left knee. I jerked then silently cursed my over-reaction.

He was quickly getting the better of me, this rope master of mine.

My rope master...

No, I was only calling him that in my thoughts because I had no name for him, hadn't even seen his face or heard his voice. That unknown factor gave him too much power. I had to name him so I could claw back some power of my own.

My first thought was to call him "Bakushi," which was just another way to call him a rope master but in another language. It was also a mouthful and the only thing I wanted my mouth full of at that second was the rock hard cock he had pressed against my spine.

So not "Bakushi," something shorter but similar.

Baku!

Some of my vulnerability slipped away as I settled on the name. "Baku" was light, pleasant, almost comical. I didn't need to worry about a man named Baku, even if he only called himself that in my head. Baku was a little monkey with a piece of rope, not a man with muscular thighs and rough hands.

More of the material slid across the top of my knees, bringing my thoughts to a screeching halt. I could feel the twists that braided through the silky fabric. Silk was strong. Once braided, it was even stronger. If I used my safe word and he didn't stop, I wouldn't be able to wiggle out of it. The fabric would only tighten the more I struggled, especially once I began to sweat from the effort.

Baku stepped closer, his legs brushing against mine as he draped the rope over my shoulders. Sensing the man circling the bench, I moved my head to track him.

"Face forward," Rick ordered.

Reluctantly, I turned back to my original position. From behind, the rope drew closer until it rested against my throat in a soft threat. Hands threaded through my hair, gathering all the loose, dark strands, twisting the thick mass and winding it into a bun that Baku secured with a long pin through the middle.

Warmth spread through me. As utilitarian as the act might have been for Baku, it had been a long time since a male had done anything so domestically intimate as to fashion my hair. My stylists were all women, which meant the last male to do so would have been Jake or Dylan making me presentable when my father's maids were all off preparing the house for guests.

Taking up the rope, Baku -- big cock and all -- pressed against my back as he leaned forward and lifted my breasts. He tucked the first length of the material beneath their fold. Together, our bodies bobbed backward, separated, together again and then forward as the rope circled my torso another time at the fold and then several circles across the top swell. Each time the rope went around me, he paused to make small adjustments so that my breasts were squeezed more mercilessly by the fabric.

My nipples, already erect and responsive, became exquisitely sensitive from the mounting pressure. That sensitivity shot like an arrow from my nipples to my clit, where my flesh was every bit as swollen -- swollen like the sea in a rough storm, moisture beading the air and slickening every surface.

I squared my shoulders to keep my ass from squirming along the cushion. I was getting very, very wet between my legs. If I wiggled even a little, my fluids would darken the fabric beneath me.

Oblivious to my arousal, Baku looped one end of the rope over and under the top three strands, then a straight line between my breasts to run the end under the bottom strands. Kneeling next to me on the cushion, he wrapped one arm around my side then pushed me in that direction with his other hand. With both of my arms bound by the same rope squeezing my breasts, I couldn't do anything other than fall on my side.

His firm hold kept me from hitting hard or bouncing. His body moved with mine. From our first contact, I had the sense that he was muscular. Not hulking, but tall and packed with lean muscle. The way his body slid against mine as he placed me on my side confirmed those impressions. A thick thigh pressed against one of my plump, soft ass cheeks. The other leg crowded the underside of my bottom and upper thighs.

Bracing his torso over mine, his lips paused against my ear to mock me with another
pant, pant, pant.

My breathing froze. My bottom lip and chin quivered as I refused to take another breath until I brought my body under control. My ego felt bruised even as another push of warm cream escaped my pussy and seeped between the folds of my tightly pressed labia.

Why would he do that -- mimic the uncontrolled rush of air in and out of my body? If he wanted me to stop so I didn't risk passing out, he could have just told me. Or maybe he didn't speak English...or he was mute.

A hand slid down my body. Its thumb brushed along my bottom then parted the seal of my labia. In the tip went, slick and fat, my juices accumulating in the callused ridges. He brought the hand up to my face, the thumb smearing my cream against my lips.

Tensing, I moaned, the sound unrecognizable as coming from my throat.

He groaned with me then nipped my earlobe. The quiver left my lip to overtake my body. Another small bite from him, this time against my throat, and I almost came on the spot. I dug my nails into my flesh to stop the surge of pleasure.

A hand smacked my ass, the sensation pushing me another inch closer to release.

"You always have your safe word, Riona," Rick reminded me, his voice raw and sensual in a way I had never heard it. I had all but forgotten about the photographer, his presence reduced to the
click-whirr-click
of his camera.

I said nothing. I hadn't bargained for this, but I wouldn't back out. I had never been so awake down there. The rope master knew it because he chuckled at my tight lipped silence.

Baku chuckled
...

Right -- a little monkey, not a big, strong hairless ape that smelled good enough to eat.

Standing alongside the bench once more, he bent my top leg. Placing his palm against the side of my calf, he measured down about seven inches from my knee and wrapped the rope thrice round so that thigh and calf were bound together. He worked the end between my firmly pressed flesh so that the circle of rope wouldn't slide off my knee.

The room went quiet and then I heard the
snik-snik
of Rick changing lenses. My heart, already pounding hard and fast against the back of my ribcage, kicked like a jack hammer as Baku secured the rope somewhere above my body and pulled on the end. My bound leg went up and up until my pussy was splayed open.

Hearing Rick with his camera and certain the lens was directed at the moist pulse of my cunt, I lifted my lower leg to block the view. The position lasted all of two seconds. Baku tied off part of the rope above me then pushed down on my bottom leg.

Finding the other end of the rope, he looped it through the top five strands squeezing just below my shoulder blades. Then he bound my bottom leg just as he had the top, my calf pressing against the back of my thigh, three loops around and then two between.

BOOK: Training Her Curves - Kinbaku (A BBW Billionaire Domination and Submission Short)
13.09Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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